Harry Potter and the Viper's Brand
by AntaresTheEighthPleiade
Summary: Voldemort couldn't have picked a worse time to return. Between preparing for the long-awaited ambassadors, a manipulative headmaster after Sirius, and Hermione's parents threatening to withdraw her from Hogwarts, Harry had enough on his plate already. Good thing his friends are always there for him. Book 5 of the Saga of the Lightning Speaker.
1. Prologue: In the Witching Hour

Disclaimer: I do not, have never, and will never own Harry Potter or anything associated with him. This disclaimer applies to my entire fic, unless my evil plan to Imperius JKR and make her sign over the rights actually succeeds. If that happens, you guys will be the first to know. Until then, though, consider this fic disclaimed. Same goes with the songs I'll be quoting throughout the story.

* * *

_A warning to the people, the good and the evil:_

_This is war._

"This is War," Thirty Seconds to Mars

Remus Lupin awoke at five past midnight to the sound of his godson's cries.

Adrenaline jolted through the werewolf's body, propelling him to his feet and halfway out the door of his bedroom before he'd had the chance to blink all the sleep from his eyes. The wolf in the back of his mind, always awake now but no longer monstrous, bared its teeth in a silent snarl. The part of Remus that was human clutched his wand, running over a thousand spells.

What could make Harry cry out like that?

Remus burst into his godson's bedroom with his wand at the ready, eyes fully gold, lips pulled away from rapidly sharpening teeth, only to pull up short. Nothing. Nothing was going on. No enemy tangled with Harry—no enemy unless one counted the bed sheets and blankets tangled around him, soaked with the same sweat which matted his bangs to his brow.

A nightmare. Remus lowered his wand. The wolf in his mind quieted.

Considering everything his ward had been through in the past few years—losing a brother to a manipulative old man, learning that he was prophesied to save the wizarding world, acquiring Voldemort's memories, discovering a Horcrux in his head and another one in Mark's, one of his dearest friends nearly dying—it was no surprise that Harry had the occasional bad dream. Heck, it was a wonder he didn't have _more_ nightmares, that he didn't wake screaming every night. Not that Harry ever woke screaming. His time at the Dursleys had taught him (and Mark, Remus assumed) to sleep silently lest they disturb their Muggle relatives.

He sighed softly, sadly.

Should he wake the boy? Sometimes, he knew, the mind needed to purge itself of poison and cold only do that through nightmares; they, like all dreams, existed for a reason, after all. But he probably should wake Harry, get them some tea or coco, and make him talk about this. The boy was too reserved for his own good. He had a sense of humor, yes, and used it to devastating effect, but he had a tendency to bottle things up much, much too often. With these thoughts in mind, Remus approached the bed, gave Harry's shoulders a little nudge.

The boy made an odd sound as though he were attempting to snarl in Parseltongue.

A lithe black shadow slithered up to the boy's face, began hissing into his ear. Remus shook his ward again, a bit harder this time. Harry still didn't wake.

Remus frowned, brow furrowing in concern. This wasn't good. "Harry," he called, his soft voice mingling with Sisith the snake's hisses. Even Hedwig, Harry's snowy owl, let out a hoot.

Harry writhed in his bed.

No, not good at all. "Harry!" Remus shouted.

The boy jerked awake, his face white, his eyes burning green. Ragged gasps tore from his throat. For a few moments he simply gazed about, uncomprehending but utterly furious, before Sisith said something that made his human friend start. Harry's hands fisted around the blankets, trembling with rage or fear or both.

"Harry?" Remus began. "What ha—"

"We need to call a meeting. Now." The green eyes were wide and wild, focusing on something that Remus couldn't see. "Let's get to the Isle—no, can we have them here?"

"What?"

"The others," Harry replied, which was really not helpful at all. He pushed himself out of bed, began to pace. "You go to the Isle and get Saysa and Sirius. I'll get my mates. We'll meet back here in…. How long d'you think it would take me to break into Blaise's place? His mum's put some nasty wards up."

"_What?"_

"You're right, I can just get there and send a Patronus."

Sisith hissed something. Harry snapped to attention, gaze riveting on the small black snake. From the sound of it, Sisith was scolding his human. Harry scowled, hissed something back. Once again, Remus wished he knew Parseltongue.

Sisith reared, spat something. Remus still wasn't good with telling reptilian expressions, but he could have sworn that the snake looked angry. Harry nodded, visage set in stone.

All right. He was the adult here (even if Harry was very mature for his age and had access to an additional sixty-odd years of memories); he could figure out what was going on. "Harry, you're not leaving this room, much less waking your friends up in the middle of the night and dragging them here, until you tell me what's going on."

"Voldemort's back. I've seen it." Harry swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, but that was the only indication of his fear. "We need to tell the others."

No. Please, no. Remus's heart stuttered to a stop before starting up again at twice its normal tempo. "Harry, are you sure—"

"It wasn't a dream!" The boy's eyes were desperate, wild. "It was a _vision,_ Remus, and I got it because of _this!_" One pale, shaking hand brushed his bangs back, revealing a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. A scar that wasn't only a scar, but the remnant of a Killing Curse and a Horcurx-making ritual gone wrong. A scar that was a Horcrux.

Gold-flecked eyes met wide, unblinking green, and Remus nodded. He could see the truth of his ward's statement in his gaze. "I believe you, Harry, but—"

"No, we have to tell them!" the boy cried. He looked ready to weep with frustration.

"And what then?" Remus demanded. "Will you drag them to fight the Dark Lord at twelve-fifteen in the morning when they've had no prior warning, no time to prepare, no idea what they're getting into?"

Harry quieted. His jaw worked without sound; a muscle jumped in it. Finally he managed to splutter out, "But—"

"I believe you, Harry, I swear I do. But unless Voldemort is planning to attack them right now, then you need to take time to calm yourself down and _think_ instead of dragging your friends out of bed and making them fight a Dark wizard in the middle of the night."

"But he's _back,_" Harry whispered.

Remus swallowed. "I know, Harry. I know." He sat down on the bed beside his anxious ward, laid a warm hand on the boy's shoulder. Softly, gently, he asked, "Would you like some tea?"

Harry glared. "Tea at a time like this? Were you listening at all?"

"I was," Remus retorted, "were you? What did you intend to do, Harry, break into wherever Voldemort is and duel him yourself right now?"

Harry looked away. "I don't _know_," he spat. "Maybe. If that's what it takes."

"If it were Blaise or one of your other friends about to do this, would you let them?"

"I'm not Blaise. I have his memories. I know him, what he can do. What he will do." Harry's breathing quickened. "There will be death, Remus. Death and blood and suffering, and I have the power to stop that, and you're telling me to stay put?"

"Where is he?"

"The Goyles' house." Harry didn't hesitate. "I don't know where in their house, but they were there and—" He froze. The last vestiges of color drained from his face. "Unless it's not their house and he just brought them elsewhere for the… ritual." Harry spoke the final word as though it were bile in his mouth. The boy gave a low moan, slowly lowered his head into his hands. "I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know. I've obviously never been in the Goyles' house, and neither has he. He knows where it is, of course, so I do too, but…. I didn't recognize it. I only saw the Goyles and the ritual and the… _thing._" Revulsion coated his words.

Remus stood, helped his ward to his feet. "Come on. It sounds like you need that tea."

The boy remained silent as his godfather moved around the kitchen, boiling the water and finding teabags and sugar lumps. He stared blankly at the wall, occasionally chewing at his lip. Remus took advantage of the silence and the mindless, ingrained task of preparing tea to examine his own emotions.

Voldemort was back. He wanted to doubt it, wanted to believe that this was just a nightmare, but… he couldn't. Not when Harry didn't get nightmares, not when his inner wolf had its hackles raised. Not when his poor godson still had a Horcrux in his head. No. He didn't want to believe, but he could not disbelieve.

And if Voldemort was back….

Sick terror rose in his throat. He tried to quash it, to force it down, but his hands still trembled as he poured the boiling tea into two chipped cups. Harry didn't notice, thankfully, as he was still too occupied with the turmoil in his mind.

A small, detached part of Remus's brain wondered how he was so calm. Well, maybe calm wasn't the best word—he was hardly at peace with himself—but he was more composed than he had any right to be.

Maybe it was the shock.

The thought had barely flickered across his mind, more sarcasm than anything else, but the werewolf paused, considered it. Yes, he decided, it probably _was_ the shock. He felt numb inside, so blank and detached, that it couldn't be anything but shock. Tomorrow, when he had slept and eaten and had time to absorb this news, then, he was sure, the shock would evaporate, leaving panic in its wake. For now, though, he was composed, in control.

Harry stared into his teacup without seeing anything. Remus passed him the sugar bowl, but the boy, distracted as he was, didn't notice.

"Tell me what happened."

The words didn't seem to penetrate. Remus leaned across the table, placed a warm hand on his ward's shoulder. "Harry. What happened?"

Green eyes met brown for a single moment before dropping back down to the cup. "I…."

Remus waited.

Harry swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "I went to bed a bit early, you know? We have training with Firenze tomorrow and Blaise wanted us to spend the rest of the day in the woods because he's this close to getting into his Animagus form and thinks it would be funny to chase us around as a jaguar. So I went to sleep, and that was no problem.

"I didn't do Occlumency. I probably should have, but… no. I'm glad I didn't think of it. I've never needed to before, you know? I mean, I knew that it was _theoretically _possible that I'd be able to get visions of Voldemort, but I never have before and I thought he was still doing whatever it is he was doing in Albania for the past twelve years still. I'd almost forgotten that it was possible because it looked like that theory was wrong. But it wasn't.

"I'm not sure why, but I saw the… the ritual—" Harry shuddered, hands clenching around the teacup. "I saw Voldemort. I'd always thought—you'd think that if my link was with Voldemort's head, I would see things from his point of view, but I guess not. Maybe it's because this is my first vision and things will only get worse from here on out."

Remus flinched at the black despair in his godson's voice. He wanted nothing more than to reach across the table again and wrap the poor boy in a hug, but a part of him knew that if he did that, they'd both start crying and break down entirely, and while that would certainly be cathartic, Harry would never forgive himself for indulging in human emotions instead of telling someone, anyone, at least one other human being the truth about Voldemort's return. So the werewolf remained in place, his heart aching.

_I'm sorry, Harry._

The boy sighed, looking somehow very old and very young at the same time. "But anyways. I saw it from a few feet away, like I was in a corner. A fly on the wall, as the saying goes. And I saw… I saw…."

The teacup shattered. Harry started; he'd forgotten he was clutching anything in his hands, much less something that could break and pierce the skin. Bright red stained the porcelain as cooling tea spilled across the table.

"Sorry." Harry hung his head.

"It's all right," Remus assured him. A pause as he considered, then a sigh. "Well, this is. The broken teacup, I mean. Not Voldemort's return." Very gently, he waved his wand. The cup returned to its original state. "Do you want me to look at your hands?"

"No thanks."

"Harry…."

The boy huffed. "Fine."

Remus took his ward's hands in his own, inspected them for a moment before letting them drop back onto the table. It seemed like the cuts weren't as deep as he'd thought; they should be easy enough to heal with a simple charm. The tip of his wand ghosted against the pale, bleeding palms, sealing shut the injuries. Harry watched, gave a tiny nod. "Thanks."

"Any time, Harry."

"He wasn't even human anymore." The abrupt change of subject caught Remus off guard, but he leaned back into his chair without any further prompting. "He was a thing. I can't even describe it, it was like something you'd find dead and decaying under a rock. Maggot-colored except for the eyes." He shuddered. "I recognized those eyes right away.

"But it was a ritual. The Goyles were there. Goyle—the adult one, not my classmate—he put in one of Voldemort's father's bones. I don't know which one, though that doesn't matter. Just bone of the father, unknowingly taken. They were in a cauldron, a great cauldron, Voldemort and the bone and probably a bunch of other things, though I don't know what. I probably don't want to know, either."

Remus understood that. He didn't particularly want to find out himself what ingredients could bring a spirit back to life.

"Bone of the father. Next was flesh of the servant. Goyle's a big man, thick, with a beer belly. I dunno if you knew that. He took a knife, a knife that reeked of Dark magic, and—" Harry made a slicing gesture above his stomach.

"So that was the flesh of the servant and the bone of the father. Then Goyle started talking about the blood of the enemy, forcibly taken…." His gaze went distant. When he looked up again, pure fury blazed in his eyes. "They had my blood. Goyle—the younger one, the one at Hogwarts—he'd whapped me in the face once, given me a hankie because my nose was bleeding. It wasn't exactly, you know, kidnapping me and tying me up and slitting my throat over the cauldron while I struggled and writhed and cursed, but it was still blood and I didn't inflict it on myself and he took it. It worked well enough for the ritual."

Harry dropped his head, bangs obscuring his eyes. "I should have known better! Never let anyone have your blood, never let anyone take anything from your body! It's one of the basic common sense rules of magical civilization! But do I do that? _No_, I thought that the thick gorilla was too stupid to do anything with the hankie and my blood. I thought he'd clean it right away. I thought he'd throw it in the trash, even! And I sure didn't expect him to bring it home and use it to resurrect bloody _Voldemort!_" His fists slammed into the table, rattling the teacups and saucers and sugar bowl.

"…It's all my fault. All the deaths, they'll be my fault."

Remus shuddered at the awful _dullness_ in his ward's voice, on his face. He walked over, enfolded the boy in a hug. Harry let him, sitting limp and loose in his godfather's arms. For a long moment, they just stood there, quiet on the outside but howling within.

Then, "Harry," Remus said, "it's not your fault."

But he knew his ward would never believe him.

* * *

Mark Potter launched himself out of bed. Or at least he tried to. He'd tangled himself in his sheets, thrashing about as he had, and it took a few seconds to disentangle himself. When he was free, though, he literally sprinted out the door, taking the stairs two at a time.

This was one of those instances when he was very, very glad that he lived at Hogwarts during the summer. Was it lonely? Yes. He could write Ron and Dean and Seamus and weekly meals with Professor Dumbledore were great, but living in a giant empty castle for months on end wasn't a teenage boy's idea of fun. If he hadn't been able to visit Hogsmeade and occasionally Floo over to the Burrow, he'd probably have gone mad. But now, as he bolted through the halls, he was more grateful than ever before that he lived here.

The boy skidded to a halt before a pair of stone gargoyles. "Blood Pops," he gasped.

The gargoyles stepped aside. "What's got you in such a rush?" the one on the right asked.

Mark ignored them, his footsteps pounding on the stairs.

He'd never been in Professor Dumbledore's office alone, and certainly not so late at night.

It was dark, of course, save for the gleaming silver of his instruments. The portraits slept—actually slept; Mark had been in here enough times to know when they were faking—their faint snoring providing a peaceful foil to his own panicked panting.

Mark looked around wildly, silently cursing his idiocy. Of course he wasn't going to find Professor Dumbledore here; it was past midnight, for Merlin's sake! The headmaster might be wise and mighty, but he was still only human.

The boy cleared his throat. He was beginning to feel a bit awkward, a feeling which was not helped when Headmaster Black opened his eyes and spat out, "Well?"

"I need to speak with Professor Dumbledore."

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" the irate portrait demanded.

Mark glared. "_Yes,_ I do, and I wouldn't be here if it wasn't urgent. Where is he?"

"What's going on?" asked one of the headmistresses, her voice still bleary with sleep.

"I need to talk with Professor Dumbledore right now. It's a matter of life and death."

The headmistress blinked at him, all her sleepiness forgotten, before nodding sharply and sliding out of her frame.

The other portraits were waking up, turning their attention to the pajama-clad boy in their midst. Mark stood there, uncomfortable by the attention and the unasked questions, but said nothing. He didn't want to have to explain this twice.

Then phoenix flame flashed in the darkness, searing his eyes and making them water. Fawkes fluttered from his master's shoulder onto his perch, where he regarded the scene with something resembling curiosity.

"What is wrong, Mark?"

The boy swallowed, wished he had some water. But that wasn't why he was here. As he'd said, it was a matter of life and death. "Professor? Voldemort's back."

* * *

An abrupt ending, but I had to get this done on time and I'm sure you can imagine how their conversation goes. It would be a lot of repetition of what Harry and Remus were doing.

In this book, I'll be quoting songs at the start of each chapter. If you guys have any suggestions or just any good quotes, feel free to leave them in a review. Also, the profile poll about the changeling is still up, so if you haven't voted, you still can.

Next update: December 6. Until then, my friends, fare thee well!

-Antares


	2. In the Light of Day

_Now the dark begins to rise,_

_Save your breath, it's far from over._

"I Will Not Bow," Breaking Benjamin

Two weeks into her summer vacation, Hermione Granger wished with all her heart that she was back at Hogwarts.

This was not, despite what some of her classmates would automatically assume, because she missed her classes. She had quite enough books to last her through the entire summer, thank you very much, and contrary to popular belief, she _did_ realize that there existed a world beyond the confines of academia. Nor was it due to the Reasonable Restriction on Underage Sorcery. She had access to an ancient Portkey that would bring her to an Unplottable island at a moment's notice; she had plenty of time to practice her magic without the Ministry pounding at the door. No, Hermione's wistfulness stemmed from her parents' recent behavior.

Hers was not a bad home or a bad family situation. They had never hit her or neglected her or locked her in a cupboard under the stairs. They were often busy with their jobs, yes, and preferred a laid-back approach to parenting, but Hermione had never had cause to doubt Jean and David Granger's love.

And therein lay the problem.

Loving someone meant desiring to ensure her safety. Hermione had nearly died not even three months previously, and that experience had inevitably left its mark upon her parents. They walked on eggshells around her, calling home six or seven times a day from their workplace, and threatening to remove her from the source of their fear entirely. As dentists, they had skills high in demand throughout the Western world. They could quite easily pack up and move to France or America or Australia, anyplace except their British homeland. The only reason they hadn't packed their bags and fled already was that they'd sent a letter concerning Hermione's withdrawal from Hogwarts while she was still in the Otherworld, which had resulted in a very confused Professor McGonagall showing up in their fireplace. She had, she told the Muggles, asked 'Hermione' (really the changeling taking Hermione's place) about the letter, and 'Hermione' hadn't known a thing about it. Somehow, the doppleganger's ignorance had led to accusations (politely veiled, of course) that the Muggle Grangers were trying to take their daughter from the wizarding world against her will, which was illegal.

In other words, Hogwarts was watching them. Perhaps it wasn't Dumbledore himself, but Hermione was such a good student that it was not inconceivable that the headmaster should take a personal interest in her attendance. If he decided that he didn't want Hermione to withdraw, if he decided to steal her from the Muggles who had ripped her from the wizarding world….

Jean and David knew intellectually that their daughter had been in disguise when the headmaster cursed her. They knew that Dumbledore thought Pallas Dhar was dead, that nothing had ever happened to Hermione Granger. But the fact remained that Albus Dumbledore had _tried to kill their daughter. _Of _course_ they weren't going to react well to that.

They had actually been reading up on espionage both magical and mundane. If an opportunity presented itself, Hermione did not doubt that her parents would drag her out of the country without a second thought.

_If_ the opportunity presented itself. It hadn't, not yet, but it wasn't for lack of trying on the Grangers' parts.

So Hermione, who had no intention or desire to leave the country, was feeling a bit stifled. And the other changes in her life were not helping.

The last thing she needed was the news Harry blurted out when she and her 'cousin' (really her companion/replacement/doppelganger/unofficial bodyguard/connection to the Fae) Lynelle popped over to the Forbidden Forest for their exercise session with Firenze.

"_What do you mean Voldemort's back?!"_

"I believe he meant exactly what he said," Lynelle volunteered helpfully. From anyone else, Hermione would have suspected sarcasm. Lynelle, though, was a changeling, newborn from the greenwood, and still fairly unfamiliar with many of the social skills that humans took for granted. It was a sad day indeed, Hermione had felt, when she realized that even _she_ possessed better social skills than this poor young creature of magic. "How did that happen?"

"He was about to explain that when you arrived," Firenze the centaur informed the girls.

Harry winced, looking exceptionally guilty. "Right. Like I was trying to say, I had a vi—oh, come on." For Blaise Zabini, the Smoking Mirror and another of their friends, appeared in the forest clearing they used as a meeting place. "Is this just going to keep happening?"

"Is what just going to keep happening?" Blaise queried.

Harry grimaced. "I have some bad news—" Hermione snorted; that was an understatement if she'd ever heard one "—and I've been trying to explain it, but then someone else pops up." As if on cue, Daphne Greengrass, Daughter of Frost, materialized a few feet away from Blaise. "See?" Harry continued. "And now, if I try to explain it again, Neville will show up and interrupt me and we'll have to start all over again."

"Start what over again?" Daphne asked.

Harry rubbed at his head. "Can we just wait for Neville? I'd really rather only say this once."

"Say what once?" asked the boy in question. Neville Longbottom, Prince of Flowers, had made his entrance just in time for Harry's last sentence.

"Voldemort's back," the boy announced.

"What?"

"How on—"

"That's not funny—"

"How did that happen?"

"—earth did that happen?"

"—but I really, really hope it's just a cruddy joke."

"I'm afraid not, Blaise," Harry sighed. "He's back."

"The stars warned of this," Firenze mumbled, lifting his gaze to the now-blue sky. "The Pleiades were so very bright last night, even the Lost Sister could be seen. But there was a halo of red corruption about her, and she formed an angle of ill omen with the constellation Serpens. We worried, for you had mentioned that the Viper's mother was named Merope. We feared it had something to do with him."

"It did," Harry confirmed, head jerking in a nod. "I wish you were wrong, but it did."

"We should get Saysa and Sirius so you can explain to all of us at once." That was Daphne, as practical as ever, even if her eyes were still wide with fear, the whites showing all the way around and blending in with her colorless face. "I'll go get them. Where—where should we meet?"

"Bring them back here," Firenze instructed. "My people must be informed as well." He turned, galloped into the thicker parts of the forest where his people dwelt.

Harry looked ready to hit himself. Evidently he hadn't thought about warning the centaurs.

"I'll go with you," Neville told Daphne. She managed a tiny smile. The two shifted into their alternate forms, gifts from the reluctant Winter Queen, and withdrew their Portkeys. The golden oak leaf and silvery snowflake would transport them to Founder's Isle, where Sirius, Saysa, and Harry's reformed delinquent cousin Dudley Dursley lived.

Blaise was frowning. "I didn't get any Dreams about this," he whispered, gazing off into the distance. "You'd think I'd See something about the bloody Dark Lord coming back, but…. Nothing." He spread his arms, palms out. "I haven't Dreamed anything about Voldemort."

"Lucky you," muttered Harry.

"No, it's _not _lucky, because I should have Seen something! The bloody Viper coming back from the dead ought to merit at least _one _vision!"

"It did," Harry growled. "That's how I saw it."

Blaise's eyes went wide. "You're a Seer now too?"

"Course not." Harry lifted his bangs, revealing the pale lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. That scar, a remnant of Voldemort's failed Killing Curse, was one of the reasons he was called the Lightning Speaker. It was also the seat of a Horcrux, a parasitical fragment of Voldemort's soul that clung to him for life. "Apparently _this_ foul thing gives me insight into Voldemort's… activities." He couldn't suppress a small shudder.

Hermione's blood ran cold. What exactly _had_ Harry seen to disturb him so?

Blaise winced. "Oh." He fell silent.

Hermione frowned, chewed her lip. "Scar or not," she pointed out, "Blaise is right. You would _think _that, if the Viper and the Spider are the two enemies we're supposed to face, he would see the Viper coming back. What have you Dreamed of lately?"

"Bones," was the response. "A blood-spattered bone with a bit of flesh sticking to it."

Harry swore violently and creatively.

That, of course, was when Saysa and Daphne (now returned to her ordinary form) showed up. The basilisk in human form raised a thin black eyebrow. Harry flushed.

"In his defense," Daphne said, "the news I warned you about really is bad enough to warrant that kind of reaction."

The eyebrow dropped to its normal position. Saysa's expression grew worried. "What is this news?"

"Harry's just going to spit it out all at once," Blaise explained. "Firenze has gone to warn the centaur elders, get them gathered together. We're supposed to get you and…. Say, are we supposed to wait here for Firenze and everyone or did he want us to go after him?"

"He didn't say," Hermione answered.

"Let's wait until Neville and Sirius arrive," Daphne suggested. "Maybe Firenze will return by then."

"And if he doesn't," Hermione added, "we can start making our way towards their village. At the very least, we'll save Firenze a few minutes coming back."

Blaise forced a smile, tried to add some desperately needed humor to the situation. "Well, I suppose it is one of our exercise days…."

Nobody laughed. Not even the people who still didn't know what, exactly, was wrong could find any humor in the situation. Harry's worry—no, his fear—and anger and dread filled the very air, infecting them all with foreboding. They made their way through the forest in silence.

The prophesized five had been training with Firenze for over a year now. They would never know the Forbidden Forest like the centaurs or Hagrid or Saysa, who had wandered its paths for decades, but they knew enough to lead Sirius to the centaurs' grove.

The community was peaceful, surprisingly so, to Hermione's mind. She knew in her head that it had no reason to be disturbed, that the humans' news had not yet diffused through the population, but there was still something jarring about knowing that Voldemort was back, he was at large again, and seeing these people wander about without a care in the world. A few people acquired pensive expressions when they saw the quiet group, but most of the centaurs ignored them. They didn't often meet with the centaur elders, but it wasn't a reason to comment or worry.

Hermione almost envied their ignorance.

"Should we ask around?" Neville wondered.

"No." Blaise nodded at a place to his right. "I think that's him."

Hermione turned, followed her friend's gaze. Sure enough, a pale shape was making its way through the green gloom. She recognized it and allowed herself a tiny half-smile. "It is."

The prisoner, the basilisk, the changeling, and the five students approached Firenze, meeting him at the border of the clearing. By now, more centaurs had caught onto the fact that something was wrong. Silence fell, even the children's laughter trailing off into nothing. Every eye in the forest, or so it seemed, bored into Hermione's back.

"They await you," Firenze announced quietly. "Follow me, Harry Potter."

"Thank you." Harry inclined his head, tried to make himself smile with gratitude, but the expression did not—could not—reach his eyes.

Once again, their journey proceeded in silence.

Normally, Hermione would have occupied herself with observing the forest. She had noticed a deeper connection with the woods since returning from the Otherworld: the colors were brighter, contrasts more vivid, birdsong more beautiful. It would sometimes make her serpent sight activate against her will, but that was a small price to pay for the beauty all around her. Besides, the serpent sight was beautiful as well, even if it did occasionally make her want to empty her stomach. Moderation, she had found, was the key.

That day, though, she ignored the plants and birds and chittering squirrels around her and focused on Harry. The boy walked in front of her at the head of their group, so she could not see his expression, but his posture gave everything away. Stiff-necked, shoulders rigid, spine painfully straight, he walked like a messenger dreading delivering his news.

Hermione did not blame him.

The grove to which Firenze led them was smaller than the main centaur settlement. Summer flowers bloomed throughout it, purple buds peeking from between the roots of ancient trees and yellow blossoms soaking up sunlight. Moss grew on every trunk, rich and verdant, and on the great gray stones that lay scattered about the clearing. A tiny stream babbled nearby.

Four centaurs awaited them. Hermione recognized three—Charis, the eldest elder; Bowen, the youngest; Stavros, a renowned archer even in his old age—but the fourth was unfamiliar to her. Harry, however, paused to scrutinize the new mare closely. "I know you," he said slowly.

"I am Barsarbe," she reminded him. "It was I who tutored briefly in etiquette before you met with my colleagues and predecessor, who has now passed to the stars." The five centaurs bowed their heads, falling silent for a moment out of respect for the dead.

Harry nodded. A little of the tension drained from him. "I remember you now. Please forgive me for not recognizing you right away, archon." He pressed his hands to his belly and bowed, first to Barsarbe, then to Stavros, Bowen, and Charis in order of seniority, as was proper.

"You are forgiven," she replied. "I understand that you are under a great deal of strain from the news you must impart to us?"

Harry's eyes darkened to pine needles at midnight. "Yes, archon. I am."

Hermione listened in steadily growing horror as her dear friend narrated his dream from the night before—no, not a dream, a vision. Only once did she turn away from Harry, and that was to view Blaise's reaction when the younger Slytherin revealed that Voldemort had been brought back from flesh, blood, and bone. The older boy had gone white beneath his dark skin, his eyes sharpening to shattered obsidian. Hermione could almost hear him cursing himself in his head.

When Harry finished, everyone in the clearing remained silent. Even the birds had ceased their songs. Only the babbling brook, a cheery contrast to horrible news, dared to make a sound.

Harry sighed heavily, head lowering. His bangs dangled before his eyes, obscuring them from view. "We need to plan."

"Aye." Sirius sat, legs folding under him. The Animagus patted the ground beside him. Harry stared blankly, but the other humans and Saysa seated themselves on the grass. Hermione took Harry's hand, half-dragged him to the ground. If his hand trembled ever so slightly in hers—well, she wasn't going to say anything.

"We need to break into the Goyles' manor," Daphne declared. "We need to get rid of… him… before…." She trailed off, eyes going distant. She had grown up in the wizarding world, where grown men were afraid to speak Voldemort's name. Harry had broken her and their other wizard-raised comrades of that habit, but old fears died hard, and Daphne had been taught to fear Voldemort since before she knew what fear was. He was the monster her mother had told her about at night, the antagonist of her childhood nightmares. The thought of facing him directly, no matter how necessary, was enough to make her shudder.

Neville wrapped an arm around Daphne's shoulders. She scooted a bit closer, uncommonly clingy—but no one blamed her.

"You're right," Neville agreed, and he was shaking too, for he had grown up in the same environment of fear. But their eyes were hard and bright and determined, and Hermione couldn't help the pride which swelled in her heart. She had such brave friends. Sometimes, she wondered how on Earth they thought they deserved her.

"Do we have any way of knowing if he's still there?" Blaise asked.

Harry frowned, brow furrowing. "Where else would he go? We've destroyed enough of his hidey-holes that he's a bit pressed for space."

"But he doesn't know that," Blaise pointed out. "For all we know, he could be popping around the country getting progressively angrier and cursing the name of whoever ruined his safe houses. I'd rather know exactly where he is before storming Goyle's manor and having an angry Voldemort attack us from behind."

Charis spoke up. "The stars have implied that this portion of your destiny shall not end so quickly or so easily."

"The prophecies seem to agree," Saysa concurred.

Hermione looked sideways at the serpent-woman. Saysa had suffered horribly at Voldemort's—or, rather, Tom Marvolo Riddle's—hands when he had taken advantage of the blood bond which forced her to obey descendants of Salazar Slytherin. She had submitted voluntarily to the spell before her master's death, but only because no one had known how long it would be before the Lightning Speaker appeared and the Founders had feared the onset of senility in their long-lived friend. This way, the Speaker, who they assumed would be an heir of the only Parselmouth in Britain, would be guaranteed at least one ally in his struggles.

Needless to say, that plan had backfired quite spectacularly.

Saysa was freed of the blood bond now. Hermione had discovered a year and a half ago that Salazar's blood ran in her veins, having passed down through an unknown Squib and generations of Muggles before her arrival in the wizarding world. As Hermione was not the kind of person who enjoyed the thought of having a slave, she had released her friend from the geas as soon as she knew she could. Saysa had nothing to fear from Voldemort anymore—well, nothing more than anyone else, as the man had a nasty habit of killing people—but the memory of how he had forced her to kill an innocent child and Petrify several more haunted her to this day.

Harry glared at the females. "What, so are we just supposed to throw in the towel before we even try?"

"Of course not," Saysa replied, "but we must not expect this to be easy."

"And one of the reasons it might not be easy is that we don't even know if Voldemort's still with the Goyles," Blaise interjected, nipping an argument in the bud.

Harry smiled a cold, vicious smile that did nothing to soften his eyes.

"Oh, that'll be easy enough to find out."

* * *

A warning: I probably won't be able to answer any reviews. This is pretty much the weekend from Hades for me, so... Yeah. But my life will get less miserably busy in time for me to write the next chapter, which is due December 27. Until then, adios and feliz Navidad.

-Antares


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